


he's still dead when you're done with the bottle

by tsunderestorm



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25533469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: His ghost is the greatest good he’s ever done, a handsome man with stars in his eyes and stripes on his belly and a heart that never quit loving.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Howard Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	he's still dead when you're done with the bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr [here](https://chanceoftsunderestorms.tumblr.com/post/149242513200/could-you-pls-write-me-some-howard-angst-bby).

Howard has a haunting on his hands, but it isn’t malicious. No, that would make it too easy. His ghost is the greatest good he’s ever done, a handsome man with stars in his eyes and stripes on his belly and a heart that never quit loving.

The first search for him is mere days after the Valkyrie crashes. Peggy has cried in his arms because he’s the only one who won’t think less of her for doing so, the only one who will press his forehead to hers and let the tears flow freely in tune with hers. Smudged lipstick, streaked spotty powder, running mascara like war paint around her eyes. He knows what he has to do. She says that she heard him, heard Steve’s words (his last words, she says - Howard’s heart goes as cold as the ice he buried the plane in, at that) and then heard the radio go static-still. _He’s gone,_ she whimpers. _He’s gone and we couldn’t save him._ He takes a plane out, checks the last coordinates, accounts for weather. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

(He remembers the day he met Steve, small and frail in a uniform that swallowed his skinny body. How Erskine had pointed him out, said _that’s him, that’s the one I’ve chosen_. Howard’s prideful mind had thought _excellent, if we start from the bottom we’ll only look better_ while his cock had thought _I want him, goddammit I want him_ and when Steve had smiled and repeated his name with his hand locked in a grip firmer than he ought to have, his heart had thought _oh hell_.)

It’s over a month before he gets to take a plane out again. The Manhattan Project is done, the bombs have dropped, raining fire on innocent citizens and turning cities into radioactive hellscapes. Howard thinks how _disgusted_ Steve would be with him if he were here and his stomach curdles. Peggy is across the ocean, back in England for a mission and so he cries himself to sleep alone, cancels his military contracts and gives no reason why. There is nothing good left there, with Steve gone.

(He remembers the first night they made love. The taste of scotch on his tongue, whiskey on Steve’s. A joke about how they should know each other better, how Steve should know and trust he’s in good hands turned into a flirtation and a flirtation turned into necking in the backseat of his favorite Cadillac while Jarvis pretended very hard not to listen. Turned into Howard’s New York City residence filled with the sweet sounds he drew out of Steve’s full, pretty lips.)

They tell him to _give up_. One particular general tells him that the instant they find Rogers, he’s theirs. Property of the US Government, not Stark industries. Howard feels sick. Steve isn’t property and he never has been.

(He remembers the second time, and the third, and the fourth. The second more like fucking, desperate and fast and frenzied, like they couldn’t wait to get their hands all over each other. Steve eager to feel in his new body, Howard hungry to touch, to taste, to see the results of his work. Greedy, the way he won’t keep his hands off of Steve in the lab after they draw blood, collect samples, run tests. Toeing a dangerous line, the way he places a palm flat on muscular abs, the warm touch on skin making Steve’s cock swell. Greedy, the way Steve’s body swallows his cock, slick and hot and so goddamn good. The second, switching things around, Howard’s thighs spread wide around Steve’s hips, the rise and fall of his body as he works himself on his thick cock. The fourth, going all the way in the Cadillac - the blue one, this time - hard to maneuver but so goddamn rewarding when their breath fogs the windows in the chilly Chicago air. He remembers every single time. They were never enough. A lifetime with Steve wouldn’t have been enough.)

He’ll never stop searching. There’s a ghost in his glass of amber alcohol and a phantom in every plane he flies, memories of Steve in every major city he visits. He remembers following him on the USO circuit to surprise him, buy front-row tickets for hokey shows just to see Steve’s face light up. Nothing better to do except be young and in love, head over heels the way he hasn’t been for any of his partners before.

(He remembers loving him. He remembers telling him, curled up in bed together, Steve’s arms around him rubbing his shoulders. _I love you_ , _kid_ , he’d said, and Steve, beautiful perfect Steve who men, women, children, the whole goddamn country loved had blushed and cried like he’d never heard the words before. Howard knew he had even then, still knows now that he has - that was the beauty of Steve, you see. So much love to give.)

There isn’t even a body to bury. Just like Steve with his Barnes, there is nothing for which to bid farewell, no grave to visit on anniversaries. It doesn’t make sense. If there’s no body, why is there a ghost?

He gets shitfaced and Steve is there. Handsome in a way he was before the war, after the serum but before the killing hardened his eyes. Warm, feisty, his little firecracker. _Howard_ , he whispers as Howard stumbles towards him on liquor-shaken legs, _I’m waiting for you_. Howard swears he’s about to reach out and touch him, the thick fabric of a vibrant uniform on handsome body tangible again but drunken daydreams are cruel and fate is crueler still. The only color he sees is the red of his own blood when he pitches forward into a mirror, shattering it to bits. Every shard is his face, full of mistakes. A nightmare, crystalline like chunks of pure, clear ice, another cruel reminder of what he couldn’t save.

Steve wouldn’t even like him, now and Howard can’t blame him. He doesn’t even like himself.


End file.
